Am I Fonder of Masks? Or of Oranges?
by MorbidlyAwkward
Summary: Based off the really strange conversations that I have with my friends about POTO. Warning: completely random. Also be warned: this is based off of the stage musical, not the movie, as there is no category for this in Plays/Musicals. I might add more later and this could be an ongoing series. Please read and review! Rated T just in case of possible language.
1. Chapter 1

Things would be the same, she thought. Nothing was going to change. As long as she kept her promises and her secrets. The ones no one would know, not even her own daughter. She was keeping them safe, she assured herself, keeping them from ever seeing the heat of his eyes.

As normal, Madame Giry kept a lamp at the level of her eyes. She held an extra bundle in the other. She made her way cautiously down the steps and scanned each one to check and make sure the _maître _had not left any surprises for her. She was getting older, and her back struggled to support the lumpy sack she had now thrown over her shoulder. As she paddled the small gondola along the tar-black surface of the lake that was under the opera house, she noticed a new kind of fish swimming around. She hoped desperately it was not something deadly like an eel or a piranha, but she'd never been to the ocean much, and so didn't have much knowledge on the topic of fish.

The Madame slowly made it to the cave-like entrance of the lair. _His _lair. She kept scanning the room; she knew he indulged in sneaking up on her. She stepped out and finally dropped her sack. A fruit, an orange, dropped out and plopped into the lake. Giry watched in horror as it was devoured whole by one of the new fish. She reminded herself never to go swimming down here.

"Monsieur," Giry called, echoes reverberating. "I have a delivery!"

Nothing responded. Maybe he was out, she thought. But that's why _she _was there. Possibly he was with his student, Miss Daae, then? She dragged her heavy load to the back rooms, where she knew he would want his things taken. How did she ever get this job, she wondered. She already knew the answer, but she was still not used to the fact that she was the only way he could really survive down in such a place. Why was she his servant? It was enough that Monsieur Lefévre paid him twenty thousand francs a month. Did he really need someone to go fetch his _groceries_? If she'd had nothing to lose, she'd make him get it himself.

A strange sight made her stop. Something large, tall, and quite oddly shaped was between her and the small cupboard where food was kept. There were no candles in the back room, so she only made out the object's silhouette. It appeared to be a tower, with four legs that came together in arches and formed a single point at the top. Giry reached out to see what the thing was made of, hoping she'd guess what material it was by feel.

"Don't you dare touch that!" the Phantom's distinctive boom made her start.

Suddenly, light. Fanning out a match, the Opera Ghost approached her, lit candelabra in hand.

"My god, Monsieur," Madame Giry gasped, "Why must you always insist on scaring the living daylights out of me?"

"Did I not instruct you to leave my things outside?" He hissed, stepping closer to her.

"Monsieur I-" She glanced back at the tower. "What is this, anyway?" In the dim light, she finally made out the its full shape. It appeared to be constructed entirely of... "Oranges?" she wondered out loud.

"Get away from the tower, Giry."

She snickered. "I have to say, Monsieur, it's quite an eyeful. You should call it that," She strode to his side and spread out her arms, pointing to an imaginary glory. "Yes, Monsieur. Come one, come all! Come see the glorious Eyeful Tower! Right in the middle of scenic Paree! And, if you get hungry, viola! The tower's already your lunch!" She paused to laugh heartily and wipe a tear from her eye. "Oh, I crack myself up."

"Giry, I swear, if you do not leave-"

"Who am I kidding, Monsieur? Why would anyone in their right mind put a tower in the middle of Paris? And give it a ridiculous name like that?" She paused and watched his fury bubble underneath his annoyed expression. "Well, maybe you would."

In the back of her mind, Giry regretted teasing him, but of course, she tried to have fun every once in a while. He looked as though he would strangle her. He took a step towards her with an outstretched hand, snarling. Involuntarily, she screamed; he reached out and grabbed her by the sleeve.

"Stay away from my oranges," Letting her go, he snatched an orange from the tower, which managed to still stay perfectly balanced. He bit off about half of the orange, peel and all. Giry grimaced. They stood facing each other for a brief moment, a mixture of seeds and pulp running down the Phantom's chin.

"Oui, _Monsieur._" She shuffled away before anything could get any weirder. _Right, _she thought to herself, _things will be the same._


	2. Chapter 2

"Christine Daae, where is your red scarf?" A man strode into Christine's dressing room, seemingly comfortable in her environment.

Christine's eyebrows furrowed. "Monsieur?"

"You can't have lost it, after _all _the trouble I took. I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin."

Warm memories flashed back in an instant. Two childhood friends running after a flimsy piece of cloth at the beach. It was him! It was Raoul!

"You had run into the sea to fetch my scarf! Oh, Raoul, so it is you!"

"Christine!" He paused as he drew back memories of the songs they used to sing together. In a low, soft voice he sang:

"_Little Lotte, let her mind wander,"_

"You remember that too," Christine laughed.

"_Little Lotte thought: Am I fonder of dolls?_"

Christine joined in the lullaby.

"_Or of goblins? Or shoes? Or of riddles? Or frocks?"_

Yes, she thought, the memories were all coming back now. She remembered the wonderful times when the world didn't matter to her and Raoul.

"Those picnics in the attic," He smiled, pulling a chair and sitting close. _"Or of chocolates."_

"Father playing the vi-" _Crash! _A noise made both of the youths turn. It sounded like someone had just dropped a wooden crate and muttered a string of curses.

"Christine," Raoul grabbed her shoulder, "where did that come from?"

"It sounded like it came from behind the wall. But that's impossible; you wouldn't be able to hear something from behind it."

Raoul stood. "Is anyone back there?"

"No," A voice replied, "no one here."

"Who are you?!"

"No one! I -uh- THIS IS A RECORDING."

"Recording? What the blazes is that supposed to mean?"

"PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE AFTER THE BEEP," The voice paused, "BEEEEEEEEP."

"Raoul, I think it wants us to leave it a message."

"I think you're insane."

"I know what it is, Raoul! It's just the Angel of Music! He acts strangely sometimes, and I believe he's just playing tricks with you."

"But Christine, it sounds like it's coming from right behind your mirror-"

"It's just the Angel, Raoul! Leave him be!"

Raoul sat back down, defeated. "Fine, Little Lotte. I believe it's time we leave for supper. I shan't keep you up late. You must change; I must get my hat. One hour is all I ask of you."

"One hour?"

"Christine," Raoul whispered, "I think you could use some time outside your dressing room for once."

She stopped to consider. "Fine, but only one hour."

"INSOLENT BOY! DO YOU THI-" The voice was stopped when Raoul ran up to the mirror and slammed his weight against it.

Christine turned pale. "Right, forget changing. Let's leave _now._"


End file.
